M E L I T A
Fangorn had taken the initiative in finding Melita’s shoes; he’d known her for only a short period, but had learned well enough at the girl’s mercurial, impulsive, whimsical tendencies that the sooner they discovered the whereabouts of the soles, the better. She could’ve been concocted straight from the fae, laced and woven with too many otherworldly qualities, less ethereal, more resonant, less elegant, more inclined to battle and melees. She wouldn’t have lasted in their quiet, subdued lands, the detailed, sketched lines in frost and ice, driven into their ramparts, their fire, their blood, their bones. The gourd gave a feral hiss, a roll of its eerie eyes, pinpointing and locating the articles before she wandered far beyond the realm of possibility, and the girl laughed, following her pumpkin companion without hesitation. As her hands swept over the shoes, frayed and in need of mending, she heard a voice nervously piercing through the oasis’ marsh.
Were the stranger’s tones not full of apprehension and trepidation, the honeybee child would’ve been a cluster of movement, motion, and impetuous guard; drawn right back into the folds and thick of demonic walls and savage corridors. It was mostly her own fault for even thinking ill in the first place: she’d been distracted, completely deterred from any task by the mere notion of sparkling water, no matter the temperature. He couldn’t be marred or judged harshly because of her own ridiculous antics, and so instead of blistering, seething, and coiling into a bundle of ferocity and vehemence, the girl’s twinkling smile broke out across her face all over again. It was radiance and the sun-kissed channels of the glade; tipped towards the unfamiliar figure as she slipped her shoes back on her cold, chilled feet. There was shrug in her body too, ricocheted throughout her form as if she were fully aware of the dangers, the treachery, the infidels behind each and every season, but indifferent, ready to conquer them without hesitation. “Well, I like to tempt fate.” The statement summed her every action, motive, and method neatly; a horizon without limits until she found the wrong interval, specious fiend, or seditious comrade.
Without aplomb, the girl maneuvered forward, the grin still billowing along her lips, pulling her furs tighter around her shoulders, extending a hand towards the man. Her head tilted the slightest, eyes narrowing briefly, trying to discern if she’d seen him from afar, hushed in the background, but couldn’t determine anything of note. “I’m Melita. Who are you?” The girl’s gaze caught the sharpened stick in his grasp, and if possible, the smile became broader, more divine, more impish, more glorified in the triumph of impending hunts and weaponry. “Are you going to fish?”
